


Crab Apples

by Topaz_Eyes



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Angst, Community: scarvesnhats, M/M, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-10-03
Updated: 2005-10-03
Packaged: 2017-10-03 23:04:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Topaz_Eyes/pseuds/Topaz_Eyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first of October brings with it the first killing frost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crab Apples

**Author's Note:**

> Written for, and cross-posted to, [](http://community.livejournal.com/scarvesnhats/profile)[**scarvesnhats**](http://community.livejournal.com/scarvesnhats/). Prompts: October 1st (apples), 2nd (first chill). Thanks to [](http://jazzypom.livejournal.com/profile)[**jazzypom**](http://jazzypom.livejournal.com/) for the look-over!

The first of October brings with it the first killing frost, and although it has largely melted in the sunny areas of the glades by mid-morning, its white hoar lace still persists in the shadows. Remus crunches through the detritus on the forest floor, stirring up the moist earthy smells of decay under his worn boots, in search of the essentials—food mainly. Nuts perhaps. Hope in a basket. Whatever he can find.

He smells the apples before he sees them, their crisp tartness rising above the cloying sweetness of decaying leaves at his feet. The scent stirs a far memory in his mind, the promise of substance, running feet and panting breath—for the moment though he tries not to examine it, for survival comes first, and any other memory is a luxury. He hurries his pace, leaning on his walking stick. The brambles tear at his already-ragged trousers and jacket, catch in his shaggy hair and scratch at his face, but he pays them no heed.

He stops short at the sight. There are about half a dozen abandoned crab apple trees forming a small grove just off a grassy clearing. Each tree is so heavily laden that the gnarled branches are almost bowed with the weight of fruit. More apples, hundreds of them, lay strewn and bruised on the ground beneath, windfall from the September breeze.

Remus sighs with a sense of satisfaction. He knows the significance of this find; he can use something good happening to him at present. He can use some luck to see him through now that he has grudgingly relinquished his claim to magic and his place in the Wizarding world (what little was afforded to him, the always-cynical part of his mind whispers). He has done it because he is beholden to Albus Dumbledore; he has done and will always do Dumbledore's bidding no matter the cost. Although he cannot help but think he paid far too much this time round.

He has spent the past month or so with the werewolf pack that lives in the forest a few miles away from here—or he thinks so, because he feels that sometimes he has completely lost track of time. The pack ekes out a harsh and meagre existence at the edge of the forest. Remus is used to hardship living amongst Wizards; here he is both appalled and amazed at the pride the pack takes in their level of utter poverty. He is honour-bound to inform the pack of his find, as all are required to share any and all foodstuffs hunted or foraged and he is certain this will raise his standing among them considerably. The last to arrive, a known Wizard at that, he knows that Fenrir Greyback still does not trust him; although Greyback has been prodigious in his welcome to his "wayward prodigal son" he has also made it clear that Remus Lupin is and must remain omega and isolated until he proves himself. No night time fire, no company, forbidden to speak.

Remus shivers at what "proving himself" might eventually entail, but for now Greyback doesn't seem to expect much—perhaps, he thinks, this abundance of food will suffice for the short term. Remus is sure there is enough fruit on these trees to see the whole pack through most of the winter ahead. He will have to be quick about it however because of the frost damage; he recognizes the beginnings of wilt in the stems, and the apples on the trees will soon loosen and drop if not picked right away. The ones on the ground may or may not be salvageable after last night's frost. Certainly he will need help from the other members to bring it all back to the camp.

Remus stands for one full minute in front of the trees, just gazing at their bounty. By rights he is not supposed to partake until Greyback has given his approval; then again, to protect the rest of the pack members he must confirm that the fruit is not harmful—so eating one (or two, or six—they are small) on the sly will not matter. He reaches out to grab one twisted branch to swing himself into the tree, his joints protesting with the exertion—at the same time he feels the toll of thirty years of transformations dropping away, so that when he is balanced in the crotch of the tree he feels almost young again.

Exhilarated, Remus smiles to himself, and leans forward to pluck one crab apple off the branch above him; but he over-reaches, his arms flail wildly, and he feels himself start to pitch forward out of the tree. In a panic, he lunges and just regains a hold on the branch with a wrenching twist in his shoulder. Remus' vision whitens with pain as he feels the socket pop, but thankfully it does not dislocate. He takes a minute to catch his breath and roundly chastise himself; at thirty-six he should know better than that, he will be of no use to anyone with a broken neck. Though his cynical mind notes snidely, _probably no one would mind, either_. He pushes the thought back down.

He tries again to pull an apple, and is successful this time. Slightly wizened (it was just about to drop anyway), it doesn't even fill his palm. The pale green skin is half-covered with a rusty-coloured scab and a fine layer of grit from the air. Remus bites in anyway, trying not to be too eager—but oh Merlin he is hungry, he is ravenous for something that can fill him with life. The sourness assails his tongue, makes his jaw ache and his whole body wince, but it is the best thing he has tasted in a long time. He cannot remember taste like this since--

He plucks a second apple and a third, and devours each in two bites. The flesh is firm and crunchy, the juice dribbles down his chin. By the tenth apple he realizes he should stop or at least slow down. Fruit-induced runs are not a pleasant matter to deal with out here. He tells himself he is full, and only nibbles at the last apple in his hand. Swinging his leg in the crotch of the tree, leaning back against one sturdy arm, if he closes his eyes he can go back in time, as far as he wants, one year or twenty, though they all swirl and merge in his mind to one indelible image, that of falling--

"I miss you, Sirius," he finds himself whispering, the words blowing away across the air; the first words he has uttered since arriving in the pack, after the initial meeting with Greyback. He cannot fight back this moment of weakness—he lets it overwhelm him. "Please—give me something to go on here. I have to have something to survive for. I need something to live for."

Out of the corner of his eye he sees a flash of movement in the wood behind the grove, hears an animal whuffle and a snap of twigs in the underbrush. He starts, turns his head—imagines he sees a flow of black on dark shadow. His heart leaps even though his mind sternly insists it cannot be what he thinks, hopes, wants. His cynical self wonders if the apples have started fermenting on the tree. Remus stills, willing the entity to come closer. The black form lopes forward, and oh dear God it looks like that of a dog...

It is gone just as quickly as it appeared, turning tail and crashing through the leaves, never coming close, not seeming to recognize him at all. Remus simply stares at the empty spot. For one moment he allows his heart to feel as bruised as the windfall on the ground. He really should have known better, he tells himself.

But then it comes back, oh Merlin there it is again, standing and gazing at him with what seems to be those beloved pale eyes, and now Remus wonders if he is hallucinating because there is that familiar silver shimmer around its patient form. He tries not to blink—if he does it might disappear and leave him more bereft. But it doesn't come any closer, it doesn't change—it simply is. Soon Remus cannot bear it, he has to know, he has either to confirm or break it. He ventures to speak, his voice gravel-hoarse.

"Am I dead?"

The entity cocks its head, obviously not understanding.

"Am I dreaming?"

There is an almost human shake of its head.

"Why come to me then? Haven't I suffered enough?" Remus cannot control the bitterness in his voice.

The entity comes up to the foot of the tree, looking up at him, and Remus realizes it is a black dog, but it is not his black dog. Not his Padfoot. Strangely he feels nothing but relief with that. The dog whines piteously.

"Are you hungry too, boy?" Remus asks gently, noting its bony wasted frame. "Look around you, there are apples to be had. Have some if you want. I have no other food to offer."

The dog sniffs and roots around among the apples and humus on the ground, digs up some worms and eats them, scarfs them down greedily with a relish borne from hunger. Remus feels sorry for this creature, wonders if he should lure it back to the pack with him—guard dogs were always useful to be had, especially at full moons—then thinks with a start, he is starting to care again. After months of loneliness and privation, physical and emotional, he feels—human.

Remus slides out of the tree and extends one hand, enticing the dog to come closer. The dog approaches cautiously, sniffs then licks Remus' outstretched palm. Remus kneels carefully, and the dog huddles beside him. He inhales the earthy, doggy smell in its fur, feels its heat. Something that will be his, he thinks. Not what he misses most—he knows Sirius is permanently gone—but still something to call his own in the pack. Warmth beside him at night time. No longer omega.

Remus looks up; the sun has risen higher in the sky, and he must bring this bounty back. He stands again, takes off his tattered jacket and begins to pick the crab apples methodically from the lower branches, as high as he can reach. He fills the jacket as much as he can, ties up the bundle using the jacket sleeves; the dog has moved off, sitting and watching him attentively. But when Remus slings the makeshift apple bag over his shoulder and beckons to the dog, it immediately comes to heel. The dog lolls its tongue happily and Remus' mouth curves into a smile, the first genuine one to touch his lips in a long time.

"Come on then boy, best be getting back," he says.

He picks up his walking stick and sets off through the brush, back to the pack settlement, the dog obediently trotting beside him. The breeze is brisk and cold and cuts through his thin shirt, raising gooseflesh, but the sun is warm, and he has a companion again. If he closes his eyes and imagines, he can hear a bark-like laugh cutting across the wind to whisper in his ear. "For you, Moony."


End file.
